


life is short, the art long

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Art, F/M, Safe Haven, art therapy, depressed!clarke, lonely!murphy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:51:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She isn't all that convinced that his secret gallery is a collection of abstract art with absolutely no meaning whatsoever and- Murphy, you've doodled Bellamy with a mustache exactly 42 times.</p><p>Or, Clarke just wants to get away and Murphy just wants to stay where he is. Compromise can be made, but crayons will be involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life is short, the art long

The war on Mount Weather had been long and hard, but it came to an end with minimal casualties- not including the grounders, who lost many inside- and Clarke wasn’t sure what to do with herself now. 

There were no problems to be solved, no injuries to heal other than the occasional clumsy kid, (or Jasper), that fell and scraped their knee, no more grounder rituals, no more sky people funerals, all of the ashes scattered and bodies buried, no more anything. There was nothing to do, and it wasn’t as freeing as Clarke had imagined it would be.

It was suffocating.

She lied in her cot at night, staring at the ceiling of her own station compartment while hot trails of tears slipped past her temples and caught in her golden hair, Finn’s name on her lips. She had too much time to think, and it was eating away at her, slowly but surely, she was losing her mind now more than ever.

Idleness was a million needles in her shaking hands, hovering over a table with nothing on it, and she thought about what her friends did to pass the time and keep their thoughts at bay until the next problem came along.

Octavia trained with Indra, spent time with Lincoln, finally “un-reapered”, hopefully for once and for all, and Raven built gadgets and inventions with Wick. Bellamy hunted with his new grounder friend, Echo, who was currently struggling to teach him the basics of archery, a feisty woman but a kind soul. Jasper spent his time in Maya’s airlock-turned-home, or walking his girlfriend around the safe confines of camp in her bulky protective suit, an unfortunate but somewhat entertaining sight to see. Monty had created a surplus of moonshine, each batch tasting a bit more pleasant than the one before. Miller and Monroe assisted with Harper’s physical therapy, as the ‘surgeries’ in Mount Weather had taken a serious toll on her body, walking her around camp. Raven was happy to join them, and Clarke’s heart burst with love and burned with guilt each time she witnessed it. Clarke’s mother was often found chatting real estate with Kane in the dining area, the both of them considering a big move to the ocean sometime soon. Commander Lexa was off on a ‘business trip’, discussing private matters with another clan in a faraway land. The Sky People had been left out of this one, and perhaps that was best.

Clarke, on the other hand, was bored and alone. She knows she pushed them all away, but it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t hurt anyone else.

She paced the compartment, and unthinking, much like a robot, threw on her coat, flitted past the mess hall to grab a couple of ration packs, and gathered a handgun from Bellamy’s tent. Time for a little vacation.

The walk to the ‘art supply store’ was a fairly long one, but it was peaceful. She took the long way, stopping by the bioluminescent forest, which wasn’t glowing during the daylight, of course. 

She arrived at the acid fog escape car, and ripped open the door. She peeked inside to see the ghosts of two of the men she loved, who loved her back, sitting there with another ghost. A bright-eyed girl who felt only a fraction of the pain Clarke felt now, her fair-skinned hands clean, free of the blood and the guilt she currently carried beneath her fingernails. 

She saw his floppy hair, his goofy smile, she heard his raspy, exhausted voice. 

She saw his grimace of pain as she hissed words of hate, as she downed the alcohol with a scowl painted on her lips. As his eyes shined with tears and he eventually took a taste of the toxic anyway, just to lighten the weight of the secrets he kept upon his strong shoulders. 

She slammed shut the rusted door, and visions- visions of too-young girls with tears falling from their eyes as they took one of these boys' lives with a knife that did not belong to them- these visions danced behind closed eyes. 

She shuddered then, and sprinted away from the haunted vehicle buried in wildlife and nightmares, her pack leaping and crashing into her back again with every panicked step forward into the forest. 

She reached the hatch and after a moment of hesitation, swung it open and pressed the toe of her boot to the highest rung. She moved down then, closing the hatch over her head as quietly as she could manage, and immediately felt a presence in the room. Finn’s spirit had been following her for months, and she felt him in her chilled bones wherever she went, the drop ship, by the blood stained tree, the Tondc village. This, this feeling was different.

She turned around finally, and dropped her pack to the ground, collapsing onto the couch and glaring at the bunker ceiling. She let her eyes droop closed for a moment, sucking in deep breaths and exhaling them.

She allowed her head to loll to the side, and she sat up slowly when something caught her eye.

A book about psychotherapy was fixed neatly at the corner of the small table, and she finally acknowledged the blankets draped over the back of the couch. She decided to sniff the softest of them, and it was a familiar scent, however she couldn't put her finger on just what it belonged to. Cedar and something sweet.

She glanced back at the book, and noticed a marked page. She reached out with a curious hand, and flipped it open to find a strip of leather being used presumably as a bookmark, and a piece of copy paper from the stack underneath the bed, which she had once discovered when here with Finn, folded into fours. Tiny flowers sketched in graphite littered the page, and Clarke fought a smile, which soon became a grimace when realization hit her. The artist was dead, of course.

Suddenly the hatch flew open, and a pack came flying through the opening to crash onto the floor, and there was audible grumbling as they stomped a foot onto the first rung, back turned to the bunk. Clarke swiftly whipped her gun from the table and slid the drawing away from her, aiming at the figure that had yet to notice her presence.

They simply jumped from the first rung to the floor instead of climbing the length of the ladder, and landed on their feet, wobbly but standing. Clarke recognized the dirty hair, twisted dreads, and the pale skin. 

She slid her gun into her waistband and fell back into the couch, crossing her arms as he finally heard her and whipped his head around with wide, fearful eyes.

“Clarke..” He breathed, and she blinked, lips pressed together.

“Murphy.”

“What are you.. uh- what are you doing here?”

“I would ask you the same.”

He scratched the back of his neck bashfully, and nodded over at his pack. “I went out to get some water from the river..”

“Answer my question, Murphy.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Chill, alright? I like it here, the camp is full of grounders and everyone hates me even more after the whole thing with Jaha, it’s just safer to stay here.” He pleaded, and Clarke supposed that it was genuine.

Murphy had tried to venture off with Jaha’s crew to the City of Light, but many of them had died before reaching their destination, including Jaha. Being Murphy, he was blamed, accused of another murder. Nearly everyone in camp had used Murphy as their pawn in the blame game before, she could see how it would be overwhelming now more than ever. They had no evidence, and couldn't surmise him once again, they had made that mistake once before. So, he was let free, but now not only was he bullied constantly by the occasionally visiting grounders, but also by the Arkers, simply because they wanted someone to pick on, not because anyone was really that upset about Thelonious.

Even though she was angry, as this was supposed to be Clarke’s Art Supply Store, not Murphy’s Safe Haven, she would let him stay here. She wasn’t that selfish, this place did not belong to her.

He watched her warily, and his eyes flitted down to the book on the little wooden table before her. They widened in surprise, and he falsely set his eyes on the pencil lying nearby, approaching casually. She knew what he was up to, but she allowed him to pick up the book and place it on top of a high bookcase nearby anyway.

She glanced around the room, and noticed the many silly drawings pinned along the walls, but there were in turn, many disturbing ones. He seemed to have split the two moods of art on the left and right. For example, right side, a cartoon deer with not two, but five heads. Left side, a black and blue snake sporting grounder tattoos, a bloody corpse pierced on its fangs. Right side, a curly headed boy with a lopsided smile, freckles scattered across his cheeks, with a red seatbelt noose around his neck and a magic wand in his hand- which was spitting out bullets.

Clarke thought that one probably belonged in the middle.

Or in a garbage bin.

Her eyes fell on Murphy, whose face was bright red as he watched her. His drawings nearly covered the expanse of the wall, littered by crayon and pastels, graphite sketches. Held up by clear tape and yellow thumbtacks.

Clarke stood, and his eyes followed her as she walked past his gallery, admiring his amateur art, running her fingers along the paper.

Suddenly, she froze.

There was a girl with a frizzy mess of yellow hair, beneath a little golden crown, and sad blue eyes that leaked a stream of blood. She had a pink frown and a raggedy black coat. In her left hand she held a roll of bandages. In the lower left corner, there was a red, possibly bloody hand outstretched to her, and she held it with her own.

She turned to look at Murphy, and his face was stone, unreadable.

“You drew me.” She said. Not a question, a statement.

He swallowed hard, and stared at his drawing as red crept up his neck.

“I drew lots of people, so what?” He hissed, shedding his jacket and leaving it on the floor. He pushed up his long sleeves and crossed his arms, toeing off his boots and kicking them aside. His socked feet crossed the floor of his new home silently and he sat cross-legged on the couch.

“Murphy?”

He blinked, waiting for her.

“These are good.”

Obviously not what he expected to hear, he finally breathed, and gave her a tiny half-smile, continuing to stare at the wall, mute.

Clarke was an artist, his drawings weren’t, by certain standards, good- but they weren’t bad either. If anything, they would land him in a prison cell, but this wasn’t the Ark.

So, this is what Murphy does all day?

She removed her own jacket and boots, and he stared her down with knitted brows, confusion on his face. She walked towards him and he scooted over, making room for her on the couch. Then she crossed her legs too, mirroring him.

They sat there, eyes moving over his collection of drawings in silence. She didn't miss the way that her vision would grow fuzzy as she focused on the rarely quiet boy's finally steady breathing- instead of his art.

He suddenly stood, crossing the room to fall to his knees at the bed and reach underneath, grabbing a few sheets of paper. He picked up some of those wax things, crayons, from where he hid them in a hole in the wall, obviously a treasure to him, and carried them to the couch.

Without a word, they drew for hours that night, Clarke fixing his mistakes, as he watched her draw and tried to learn a thing or two.

She ended up with a portrait of the strangely beautiful little weirdo next to her, which he pinned in the middle of his gallery as soon as she put the pencil down, and she folded up his picture of her as an actual medieval princess and slid it into her pants pocket, of course after forcing him to sign it.

The man had the penmanship of a seven year old.

They shared Murphy’s water and Clarke’s rations for a dinner, and ended up having a paint war some time that night. It was all a blur.

Clarke needed Murphy's jokes and sarcasm, and Murphy needed Clarke's reassurance and compliments.

There was nothing there, just two lonely humans who needed a night of crayons, music and gentle touches to remind them that they were still alive.

She eventually looked away from the sleeping boy adorned in streaks of color, as she mimicked the picture and took his warm hands in her own small, cold ones beneath the blanket they shared, legs tangled together. She curled up against him, still staring at his drawings across the room, and felt his blue eyes piercing the side of her face as her movement woke him. He lowered his forehead against her hair, and then moved it away again, giving her space, when all he wanted was human contact. She appreciated that. He closed his eyes once more with a sigh, and she soon felt the rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his beating heart. 

She tucked her face into his shoulder, and breathed in.

Cedar and something sweet.


End file.
